


Death in a Tarot Card

by asianlychallengedasian



Category: Persona 5
Genre: ATLUS show me the good recovery time, But mildly less confusing, Canon Compliant, Canon Retelling, Canon Typical Violence, Character Study, Coffee Dad Sojiro, Crying, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so sorry Akira, Impulse cleaning, Injury, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Beta Read, Pain, Panic Attacks, Prosecutor Mom Sae, We Die Like Men, headcanons abound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23642314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asianlychallengedasian/pseuds/asianlychallengedasian
Summary: He has to do this. He'll die if he doesn't. But what is this? What is he doing?
Relationships: Kurusu Akira & Niijima Sae, Kurusu Akira & Sakura Sojiro
Comments: 9
Kudos: 308





	Death in a Tarot Card

**Author's Note:**

> This goes over in detail stuff about the interrogation room, so be careful!
> 
> I just. had an idea while i was playing royal and it turned out to be this monster. I just had a real good time ok
> 
> Also, a bunch of hcs stuck in here lets see if yall can spot them all 😔
> 
> Also: the song from the title is Dying in LA by Panic! At the Disco. It's such a perfect Akira song, and I listened to it the entire time I wrote this pretty much, oops.

Being high sort of feels similar to meditating. Everything else fades around you, except for yourself, and you feel light, yet heavy all at the same time. Or, at least, that’s Akira’s experience. And he barely can consider this getting high, since that implies he meant for this to happen, which he didn’t.

Or did he? He didn’t quite recall.

His soul drifts away, before he recalls he was doing something. He was talking to someone. But is it really all that important? He just wants to sleep. But wait, isn’t there something he needs to do? 

He hears something besides his own breathing, for once, and his soul crashes back into his body. It startles him, and his heart beat picks up; but he identifies where he’s at. He hadn’t moved. Obviously not, he’s never going to get out of here— no, no, have more confidence. He’ll definitely get out of here.

Except time is running out. Niijima stands, and his mind panics. He should’ve taken her deal, he should’ve just sold them out– but no, he can’t. He wouldn’t dare put them through the torture he’s just been through. He wouldn’t dare wish this on them. But the blood coating his mouth and the aching of his bones protest, and he _knows_ he’s missing something.

He stops her. His throat protests, but he speaks. “Is this what you planned?” _Stall her. Stall her. And think. What is it, what is it?_ She says something, but he isn’t following. His mind may be lifting from its hazy stupor, but it’s like everything else is still moving at light speed. He can’t keep up.

He remembers something. The phone? _It’s the phone._ His mind finally catches up. 

“Might you have an idea as to who sold you out?”

 _Sold me out…_ It was… The reason he’s in here is… It’s right on the tip of his tongue. He needs a few more minutes or days to figure out this. He’s like a detective sleuthing out a case…

...Detective?

He finally responds. “I might,” His articulation isn’t exactly on point, he’s exhausted, and he feels like death itself. 

_If we screw this up, we’re done for._ Ryuji said that, didn’t he? Which event was he referring to? Was there more than one? _Is_ there more than one?

Niijima slams her fist on the table. Despite the number of times she’s done it just in this short session, Akira still flinches ever so slightly. He hates it, but he supposes its just another one of his quirks. He’s all confident as Joker, but really, he’s just a scared little kid, lost in his mind.

...Kid. There’s a kid. It’s a kid his age. Detective. One who sold him out.

The phone sits proudly on the table. He gestures to it. “The phone.” His voice cracks like thin ice. He needs her to understand. He can’t say it directly. He only can hope she can infer what he’s saying.

“What are you trying to get at here? And what about this smartphone?”

He can’t say much more. The video camera is recording everything he’s saying. The only person that could and would probably see it would be the perpetrator himself. And if that happened… Akira would be dead for real, that time. That is if he isn’t already dead by that time. “Show it to the traitor.” He says. 

“The traitor…?” She still isn’t getting it. His headache grows exponentially worse with the second, something he could never wish upon anyone else. The voices ringing through his skull certainly didn’t help.

He snaps back to reality when she stands and slams both palms onto the metal table. His hand goes to block his head, impulse from not wanting to take another hit.

“Please!” She begs, and he stares at her finely manicured hands. Even the act of keeping his eyes open is an arduous task, and he sort of wants her to rake those acrylics into his skull through his eyes, and finally kill him so he can get some relief. “I need you to be clear with me! _Who do I need to show this to?_ ”

He was telling the truth, earlier, when he said that Akechi Goro was not a teammate. He’s only glad that him saying that worked out so well in the end.

He prays, he _hopes_ that she finally can get it through her not so thick skull who it is. “Not a teammate.” 

She calms down with that, and without looking, Akira can’t tell if it’s out of resignation, or maybe, hopefully, something else, without looking up. That is, until she speaks, and his heart drops to his feet. 

“Not a teammate?” She doesn’t get it. She’s such an idiot, does she really need him to spell it out for her? She’s a prosecutor, she’s had to have dealt with such veiled explanations before. He’s about to let the pain overtake him when he hears her. “My god…” She says, after a gasp of recognition. He could almost jump for joy. That is, if it was any other situation. Except not really.

“You’re referring to _him_ , aren't you?” And sure, _him_ might be vague, but he’s doing the same to her, so. He doesn’t question, only hopes she’s talking about the same “him” as he’s talking about.

“You need to trust me,” He says. It comes out more desperate than would ever admit, but she simply sighs. 

_Please. Please, trust me._ His mind tries to communicate telepathically, but then there’s a loud pounding on the door. Her times up. This is it.

He tries to listen, really. But he’s too caught up in himself until he hears her say, “I’ll place my bet on you.”

He feels like he’s on Cloud 9. Like he’s invincible. Despite all this pain and all the drugs that were pumped into his system, he still managed to convince the inconvincible. She walks out, quietly mumbling to herself, it seems. 

It’s up to Futaba, now. He sits properly at the table as he awaits for the return of the elder Niijima sister, but as time passes, his entire being grows more exhausted. The adrenaline fades, and the stings and deep bruises return to his body.

He moves from his cross-legged position, leaning forward onto the table. And as soon as his arms and head make contact with the cold metal table, it feels like the most comfortable bed he’s ever slept in. The small smile never truly fades from his face, but his eyes flutter shut.

He knows he probably had a concussion. But it couldn’t hurt to take a nap for a few minutes, right?

Sae knows she just saw the delinquent a few moments ago- or maybe not quite delinquent, perhaps she had misjudged him- but somehow, he looks even worse than she saw him last. 

He’s collapsed forward on the table, sprawled out and his breathing uneven. Sae can’t tell if he’s asleep, or just in pain. Sae would love to say that this is a rest well deserved, and leave him be, but they needed to get out of here. He needs a doctor, and an escape from prying eyes.

She shakes him on the shoulder, and he lets out a loud groan. He’s awake, then. Good. Sae figures the kid can’t walk on his own, so she moves to give him a crutch of sorts.

“C’mon, kid, we need to get out of here,” She says in a low voice. Sae isn’t expecting the response she gets.

She hears a quiet laugh. The kid’s eyes meet hers, and they’re glazed over. Not good. “Nii...jima, I think m’legs’ broken.” He says like he’s giving a report on cellular division. “Can’ really wal-k li’ that, can I?” He says, humor in his tone. 

Sae sighs once again. This kid’s going to be the death of her. “I’ll help you. Get up,” she orders. 

“But it hurts,” He whines unabidibly. Sae wonders what happened between the five minutes she hadn’t been here, but he looks the same as he was when she left. Had he always been in this much pain? Sae feels a protective instinct over this kid. Her eyes fill with pity, realizing the act of wellness was only just that– an act.

“You won’t have to walk on that side. Which side is it?” She asks, and Kurusu gestures to one side, presumably the hurt one. She crouches ever so slightly to wrap her arm around his waist, and heaves him up. He lets out a groan of pain, one that Sae regrets immensely.

“Let’s get going.” She says. She doesn’t worry too much about the details, for once.

He wants to believe, but when the door opens, he freezes. Did the app not work? 

But he hears a silenced gunshot, and he’s brought back into reality. Akechi Goro is standing in front of him, and he’s pointing the gun at him. Something happened. Everything blurs around him, like it isn’t really there. He can’t register what Akechi is saying, everything’s moving too fast, his finger tightens around the trigger and—

He wakes up. He crashes onto the floor, surprised by the lack of pain alongside it, and his vision is blue. Loud chains rattle across the floor, and he sees a sight he’s grown accustomed to in his time in Tokyo. Two platinum blondes with fierce blue eyes stand guard at the entrance of the cell, and a man with an absurdly long nose is sitting at the desk in the middle of the corridor.

“It would seem as though you’ve been killed.” Igor is shockingly calm about the entire thing. It sort of makes Akira sick to his stomach. “But why were you killed? Why did you have to die? Do you remember?”

 _Because if I didn’t die, my friends would._ He thinks, but he comes to realize something.

If he was dead, why would he be _here_? 

Something starts to recollect in the recesses of his mind, as the conversation continues. He– Everyone was alright.

The velvet room fades away as his memories return, and suddenly, he’s moving. 

It’s dark, and he can feel cool air blowing on his wounds. He’s laid out in an uncomfortable couch type thing- and it’s then when he realizes he’s in a car. He tries to sit up, but groans in pain with the throbbing of his head that came alongside it. Someone is looking back from the front seat. He can’t quite make out their face, But their hair is long.

“We’re almost to LeBlanc. Stay up until then.” They- she orders. Akira’s mind catches up with the present, and realizes it was Niijima who was talking to him. Right. He’s alive, and going home. That’s what’s going to happen.

“Is Sojiro there?” He asks, trying to keep his stomach contents in. 

She turns her body to face the injured boy. “...Is he usually there this late?” She hadn’t seemed to consider that a possibility. He sighs.

“Not usually, but he lives right down the road… I could make it there.” It’s taking all of his energy to speak, but he has to remain coherent, at least so Niijima could understand him. 

Niijima looks reluctant. “I’ll drop you off at his house. What’s the address?”

Upon getting the address, Niijima coaxes the driver to drive the tiniest bit further. He’s obviously annoyed, and Akira can’t blame him. There’s a kid bleeding all over his fabric seat. It’d be hell to get out.

“Niijima-san, was it?” The taxi driver sighs. “Are you sure nothing else is happenin’ here? This kid looks too beat up for some sorta alley fight.” He says. Oh, that’s what Niijima said.

“He had a knife.” Akira lies helpfully. “I’ont remember the rest, it’s sorta foggy. ‘mnot that athletic.” The slur and accent come naturally, borne of years of living in a country town and drugs flowing out of his system. 

The taxi driver taps on the steering wheel. “I still think you should take the kid to the hospital,” He turns back to Niijima, ignoring the boy’s testimony. “But, what am I, other than a taxi driver?” He says sardonically. 

Niijima says something that Akira can’t make out. The motion of the car puts him back to sleep. 

The next time Akira remembers is when he’s halfway out of the car. His leg aches like hell, but it pins him to reality. 

The taxi driver waits at the mouth of the road while Niijima helps Akira down the alleyway towards his guardian’s house. Akira insists he can walk on his own, but the pain shooting through his leg says otherwise. Niijima helps him walk in an almost familiar way, and Akira would’ve pondered on it further if he didn’t feel like puking.

The doorbell rings, and a moderately disheveled Sojiro Sakura steps out the door. “Who is it?” He asks in his gruff, deep voice. He turns on the porch lights, and Akira hisses at the sudden income of light. 

Instantly for Akira, the gate is open and Sojiro’s arms are wrapped around him in a protective stance. The adults are talking about something, but Akira can only hear Sojiro’s quick heartbeat, and his own thrumming through his body.

Akira’s… almost comfortable. The heat spreading throughout his body is like a fire that cannot be extinguished, but he allows it to engulf him. It overwhelms the pain. Still, the edges of his vision darken. Despite his initial fight, the inferno becomes much too comforting, and he succumbs to the heat.

Sojiro definitely isn’t panicked. He isn’t shocked to see the supposedly dead boy in front of him, looking like death itself. He doesn’t freak out when the boy slacks in his arms.

The prosecutor leaves as soon as she comes, and Sojiro curses her mentally. He looks down to his– _the_ kid. His hair’s crunchy with what Sojiro would assume is blood. Though he could only see the back of his uniform, it’s torn, crumpled and frayed from contact. The boy looks like one big bruise, barely able to stand. 

Or maybe unable to stand, if the complete shift of weight said anything. Sojiro shifts to accommodate the lanky boy’s weight– he’s more strongly built than he looks. 

He grumbles. “I thought I told this kid to back out of fights he can’t win.” He half-walks, half-carries the boy into his house, shutting the gate with his foot behind him.

Futaba peeks her head from out of her room. It was the first sign he had seen of her in a day, even before the suicide announcement was made. “Sojiro, who was–” She stops, looking intently at the boy in her guardian’s arms. 

“Could’ja go get the first aid kit from under the sink, and bring it into the spare room?” Sojiro grunts, no pleasantries nor humor in his voice. Futaba scurries off, likely to heed his order. Once Sojiro has the boy laid out on the bare mattress, he takes a step back to more properly assess the boy.

He changes his mind. He looks less like a big bruise, and something much, much worse. He looks like he fell off the roof of the school into a pile of needles. Then immediately got mugged. Though the blazer still covered much of his undershirt, Sojiro can still see the blood on his undershirt. At the top, around the collar, it’s stretched, yet still covered in blood. Most of the blood is hidden under the dark colors of the uniform, but bruises are beginning to form around his throat and face. And that’s ignoring the beads of sweat starting to form at his brow, causing the once curly hair to matt further on his face.

Sojiro rubs his face, before sighing agitatedly. He can’t do this alone, but he very well can’t call an ambulance. He pulls out his phone from his pocket, and dials a somewhat unfamiliar number. 

Doctor Takemi Tae is an impatient woman, so when she picks up, it’s in an angry tone. “Sakura, it’s– 2 in the morning, this better–” 

Sojiro doesn’t have time for a tirade. “My kid’s hurt,” He says lowly, “I need someone to take a look at him.” 

“Your kid,” She says, somewhat slowly, her mind slowed by the fog of sleep surrounding her. Suddenly, he hears a shuffle. “Wait, do you mean Kurusu?” She asks.

“Who else would I be talking about?” He snaps, his face turning red, distantly realizing he called the delinquent his kid. 

“I’ll be right over. Have coffee.” The phone cuts out abruptly, and the door to the bedroom opens.

In the doorway stands his short redhead daughter, nervously fidgeting with the handle of the first aid kit. She places it on the bedside table, not meeting Sojiro’s eyes.

Sojiro turns back to Akira. “Help me get his blazer off. And get his shoes off.” He orders, picking Akira’s upper half from the bed. Blood sunk into the mattress from the boy, and it’s everything Sojiro can do to not go find a cop and punch them in the face. Futaba keeps her eyes on her hands as she pulls the sticky blazer from the limp boy. The undershirt moves alongside the blazer, pulling Akira ever so slightly. Akira makes a pained noise, and Sojiro hates it. 

It’s the fact that this is so unusual that gets him. Normally the- no, screw it, _his_ \- kid would be rather composed, not showing his pain so plainly, not even when he burnt his hand on the curry pot. It is the small things that Sojiro finally picked out– the clenching of his fists, a change in the angle of his eyebrows. But seeing the kid in so much pain that he simply couldn’t hide it made him feel terrible. For not looking for stuff like this in the first place. That the _damned_ police did this to him. 

The undershirt’s faring about as well as Sojiro expected, but that’s the last thing he can pick up before he’s startled from the door opening.

“Sakura, you left the front door open.” She says, stepping into the spare room. As soon as she catches sight of the boy, her eyebrows furrow. “Alright, you two, get out. I’ll yell if I need you.” She preps her bag, and Sojiro ushers himself and Futaba out of the room.

In the kitchen and out of earshot, Sojiro turns to Futaba, unable to hide a fierce expression. “So, when were you going to tell me the kid was alive?” He snaps, and Futaba flinches.

“I-I was going to–”

“And what even happened to him? He looks like he crawled out of a morgue!” Sojiro ranted.

“I swear, there’s–”

“And why would you even let him do such a thing? I told you guys to get out of any situation you–”

“There was nothing else we could do, Sojiro!” Futaba sobs.

It’s then when Sojiro snaps out of his worried anger. Futaba’s curled into herself on the ground, dropped to a crouch to protect herself. Sojiro’s expression softens, before kneeling down to meet her gaze. 

“Futaba, I’m sorry.” He says, sitting a ways away from her. He knows better than to touch her when he’s caused something of this proportion. “I… Was just worried. I _am_ worried.” He sighs. “Will you please tell me what happened?”

It takes a few moments for Futaba to get her sobs under control, and she takes a shaky breath. “We-we had to. Akechi was gonna kill him if we di-dn’t.” The tears still stream down her face, like an uncontrollable river. “It wa-s so close, as it was. If I’d’ve been a few moments later, or the app didn’t work, Akira would’ve– Akechi would’ve– and I would’ve–” She can’t seem to get out anything else.

Sojiro slowly approaches her, keeping himself open to her. She collapses forward into his arms. “I was so scared,” She sobs. “I didn’t mean to not tell you, I really meant to tell you, but it was so much, and–”

Sojiro quietly strokes her hair. He shushes her, hugging her close. “It’s okay. I overreacted.” He says, “He’s okay, that’s what matters, okay? And you’re okay too.” He says.

It takes even longer until Futaba cries herself out. But when she does, she falls asleep in his arms, there on the cold tile. Sojiro could ask more later. For now, she needs sleep. He’s thankful that Futaba isn’t as heavy as Akira as he sweeps her into a bridal position. He tries to lay her down as softly as he can on her bed, and covers her up.

He closes Futaba’s door behind him, wandering back into the kitchen. He prepares a few cups of coffee, a few for him, a few for the doctor. It’s going to be a long night.

Takemi says that the damage looks worse than it is. Akira agrees, but it’s clear that that’s not it. Takemi says that his knee was dislocated, which is most of the reason he couldn’t walk on his left leg last night. There only– _only_ – seems to be a few broken ribs, which would heal in a few weeks if the kid didn’t push it too much. The bruises are bad, but there isn’t much damaged internally. 

The worst thing that Takemi encounters is the lacerations around his wrists. The handcuffs had been much too tight, and seemingly unsterilized, if the mild infection’s anything to go off of. The second worst thing, aside from the concussion, is the puncture marks around the juncture of his neck and shoulder, Takemi couldn’t be certain how many needles had entered, but she could count at least three puncture wounds. 

Being that the kid is still a minor, and that the test drug is unrecognizable, even to her expertise, she can’t administer any antibiotics or pain relievers until it’s flushed out. She would’ve put him on an IV, but even unconscious, he fought against the sharp object against his skin, moaning in pain and something akin to fear. 

Akira had also been incomprehensible the entire night past when he got there, which is another detriment. A light fever had set in, which had been what keyed Takemi into a possible infection. Even though it’s just that– a light fever– Akira had been hallucinating and waking from endless nightmares every twenty minutes. It was all Takemi could do, to keep the kid hydrated.

Which is one of the many reasons Sojiro, indignant and exhausted, refuses to let Akira sleep alone in LeBlanc the following night.

He’s aroused somewhat from his heated stupor, but it’s clear he isn’t all clear yet. His grip on the language is much more loose, and Sojiro can almost pick up on an accent. 

...He didn’t know the kid had an accent, he realizes with a horrified internal expression. He hopes it doesn’t show on the outside.

“Souji-san,” As a worn out Akira decided to shorten his name to, “What’s up?” He asks. Even completely depleted of all energy, this kid still used his to check up on anyone else. 

Sojiro scoffs. “An old man’s thoughts don’t need to be in your head. Get some rest, kid. We’ll try to get some rice in you in the morning.” Sojiro smiles briefly, a somewhat mischievous smirk, before turning away. 

Something catches his wrist. It’s hot and clammy. He turns to see Akira reaching out, just as shocked as the guardian. “I, I uh,” Akira’s mind seems to try to catch up with the situation at hand, making very intelligent noises. Akira looks down, and Sojiro feels sort of bad seeing the kid flushing as much as he was. He lets his charge mull over his thoughts for a moment. “Canyastay,” He says quickly.

Sojiro doesn’t think he heard him correctly. “Sorry kid, what was that?” Akira looks somewhat defeated.

“Nah, nevermind,” He looks away. Sojiro sits on the edge of the bed.

“No, kid, tell me what’s up.” He says, putting a hand gently on his leg.

Sojiro didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t a teen body-slamming him. Sojiro’s suddenly engulfed in a hug, and the usually stoic teen wets his shirt with tears. It’s a scarily silent affair, one with only soft hiccups and body wracking dry sobs. 

Sojiro’s heart breaks a little more every time he thinks about this kid, and how he might’ve grown up. Sojiro should’ve asked. Sojiro should’ve cared.

With the tears, follows exhaustion, and the teen slumps against him for the second time in two days. Sojiro can’t bring himself to care. He shifts them to a more comfortable position, with Sojiro laying next to Akira, like a parent to an ill child. Akira had latched onto him with a death grip, and he couldn’t help but let him do it. 

Sojiro remembers a time that he had done this for Futaba when she was sick. He remembers times where he actively took care of his children- or, well, Futaba. At some point, though, he stopped, and Sojiro regrets ever giving this up. He stays quiet, and leans against the backboard. 

_If there’s anything this kid has taught me_ , he thinks, _It’s that it’s never too late_ , he lets his eyes shut, slowing his breathing. The kid’s pushed up against him, and he thinks, not for the first time, that this kid couldn’t be so bad. 

Akira feels pain. It’s like fire, but not a homey sort of fire, that he recalls it to be. It feels like a burning house, pain throughout his body. But, with the sensation of pain, comes the sensation of touch. 

Someone’s lying beside him. He’s pushed up against them, an arm wrapped around him. The deep seated fire is barely satiated by this tiny contact, but Akira can slowly feel it ebbing away as the rest of his senses come together. 

Or maybe not– yikes, he shouldn’t have opened his eyes. It’s too bright, everything’s too colorful, and he hisses. He retreats to his dark reality, before he hears a slight huff.

“How long’ve you been up, kid? I swear, you’re too quiet for your own good.” He hears from right beside him, and his head aches a bit. It’s loud, but not unkind. It’s gruff, but smooth. 

“Sojiro?” He asks quietly.

“Mhm. You wouldn’t let me leave last night. I’m apparently a great pillow.” Akira’s face somehow heats up even more, to the point where his mouth feels like a desert. He pulls himself from Sojiro’s grip, his entire body protesting. Something pops around his ribs, and he groans in pain.

Sojiro grabs onto him by his shoulders. The juncture between his neck and his shoulder burns, and suddenly, everything rushes back to him.

The interrogation, Akechi killing him– except not really, he was just hallucinating. It hadn’t really left his mind, per say, but it was pushed back to the far interior while the pain overwhelmed him. His head hurts more with the realization, though. 

But there is a gap in his memory. Getting here, getting into the bed, getting fixed up… But he doesn’t question it. He doesn’t think he could take the embarrassment. “May I have some water?” He asks, finally.

“Jeez, kid, don’t need to be so formal.” Sojiro stands from the bed, stretching. His clothing is rumpled from a night of sleeping practically sitting up. “Sure thing. I’ll be right back.”

Akira painstakingly pulls himself to a sitting position. He gets a more clear look of how bad he is off. Around his neck is a thin layer of bandages, and he can feel bandages on his face and back. He turns his body to face the mirror, catching a quick glimpse.

It’s not quite clear– the glasses aren’t _entirely_ for aesthetic purposes, but he’d have to be blind to not see the bruises lining his face. His hair’s been washed at some point, so he lightly runs a hand through it, wincing when hitting a tender spot. 

In a fit of confidence, he tries to stand. But, his knee buckles under him, and he withholds a whimper. Even with his somewhat extraordinary pain tolerance, he couldn’t handle _that._ Had they actually broken his leg? That would certainly complicate things.

Sojiro enters again with a glass of water. “Kid, you’re gonna kill yourself. Lay your ass back down.” He says. Akira begrudgingly agrees as Sojiro gives him the drink. After Akira downs the drink, he laughs. “I’ll have to bring something more, huh?” He says, “Just don’t drink too much. You’ll make yourself sick.”

Akira nods. His throat hurts. 

“Also, your friends’ll be coming to the café in a bit. Takemi said the drugs should be out of your system by now, so you can take some pain meds. Do you think you’ll be able to make it over there?” Sojiro says, in a long, drawn out manner.

Akira waves him off. Sure, he’s in pain, but he’s been through worse. He thinks. “I’m dead, so I can do anything,” He says, after a moment. “Not like it could kill me.”

Sojiro gives a dry laugh. “If you’re good to joke, I don’t think you need the pain meds.” He says. He gives a sly smirk. “I’ll go grab some more water for you and the pain meds. Then, I should go open shop for a few hours.” He sighs, “I’ll come get you when they get there.”

Akira gives a curt nod, humming quietly. Sojiro smiles ever so slightly at him, before he turns to the door and gets the medication and water. Sojiro then departs, with Futaba, if the noise was anything to go by.

It’s silent. He only lasts maybe five minutes before he has to do something. The medicine is slowly kicking in, and he feels the fire numb to a small pain. 

With that, he tries to stand. He manages, even if the fire flares in his leg. He leans on the bedside table, testing it. His knee creaks under the pressure, but it’s not broken. He’s glad. He has no confirmation, but he figures he probably just sprained it, or dislocated it. He’s thankful for that.

Slowly, but surely, he makes his way to the door. He had to do something other than just lay there. He wanders– painfully, arduously– to the kitchen in the Sakura home. Akira would’ve expected it to be clean, but surprisingly, it’s messy as anything could be. 

Wrappers adorn the table tops, likely from Futaba’s instant noodles, and dishes are piled in the sink. Akira takes a deep breath. And he does what he does when he’s stressed– he deep cleans the whole kitchen. In fact, that’s where Sojiro finds him three hours later.

“Jesus Christ kid, you just don’t stop, do you?” Sojiro groans loudly. Akira’s gaze meets his for a brief moment before he averts his eyes. Sojiro just sighs. “C’mon, kid, your friends are waiting. Get changed.”

Akira makes eye contact with the school uniform in the adult’s arms. He hobbles over to the man, quietly taking them. He heads back to the room he came from.

It hurts like hell to lift his arms, but he gets on the school uniform after a few minutes of struggling and pain. He gulps down a few more pills, hoping to calm the fire in his entire body. His vision swims. He balances himself slowly.

A few deep breaths later, Akira hears Sojiro call for him. Akira takes only a moment more to regain his composure, before turning to the door, hiding his limp as much as possible.

One more day, one more scar, or something like that. He opens the door with a small smile. Let’s do this.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> and yes, if you caught the name reference, that may or may not have been intentional : )


End file.
